


Bonini and Boners

by annie_reckson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Incest, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1607555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/pseuds/annie_reckson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you know why you do this?"</p><p>"Do what, exactly?"</p><p>"Come to my rescue. My sweet, ginger knight. Always there when I need him."</p><p>"Because you're my brother!" He spouted out a little too quickly.</p><p>Sherlock smiled, "That's what I always thought, too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonini and Boners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taylorpotato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorpotato/gifts).



> Okay so, this is rather early, but it's a lovely person's birthday coming up and [they had a few requests](http://taylorpotato.tumblr.com/tagged/birthday), one of them being some top!lock Holmescest. 
> 
> And, well, I've had this idea kicking around in my head for awhile now so I decided now would be the perfect time to flesh it out and create a nice little bit of (pre-BBC canon) erotic incestuous relations...
> 
> (Also, apologies because it is much fluffier than I intended!)

There was a gentle knock on Mycroft’s office door, interrupting his phone call with the Spanish Prime Minister. Without waiting for acknowledgment, Anthea stuck her head in, already looking apologetic. And that could only mean one thing. Mycroft released a deep sigh, quickly made up his excuse to end his current conversation with Señor Zapatero, and waved Anthea in. Her eyes fell as she walked towards him, that meant it was definitely bad news.

Mycroft rubbed his hands across his face, “Where is he now?”

She passed him the file in her hands, “Miami, Florida, sir. He’s already been there a few days.”

“Locked up?”

“Unfortunately yes, sir. We would have discovered sooner except...well he gave the police a pseudonym.”

Mycroft’s lips quirked upwards, “How very clever,” He stood up abruptly, “I suppose we should instigate a Code Booth then, don’t you agree? Cancel or reschedule all of my appointments for the next few days. I’ll need a flight that’ll put me in Miami by 1700 their time. Call me with my flight details, I’m off to get packed.”

“Shall I have them bring the car around?”

A smirk flashed across his face, “Of course.”

He twirled his brolly and exited, wondering if this would be the last time he’d have to do this, and somehow knowing it wouldn’t be.

 

***

 

Throughout the short car ride, Mycroft flipped through the folder, already aware that it wouldn’t be anything he hadn’t seen before. Picked up for possession, _Obvious_ , belligerent to officers, _Even more obvious_ , incapable of being around other inmates, _So very characteristic_. Mycroft shook his head, Sherlock had been doing so well. He’d been completely sober for seven months and had even started consulting with the Met as a way to give his frenetic mind something to do.

But then...work had piled up for Mycroft, weeks had gone by without him being able to stop by Sherlock’s messy little flat on Montague Street, without him even thinking to check CCTV footage to ascertain his brother’s whereabouts. And now he’d somehow managed to run off to America of all places and get himself arrested again. No matter how many times it happened, Sherlock always seemed to be surprised when his arresting officers refused to be as...compliant...as Sergeant Lestrade.

It was imperative, of course, that their parents never find out about Sherlock’s nasty little...indiscretions. This fact necessitated Mycroft’s direct involvement whenever such an occurrence should happen. He’d successfully managed to prevent an international incident the time Sherlock had “mistakenly” taken PCP on a university trip to Paris, stripped naked, painted a Union Jack on his chest, and sang a particularly raunchy French version of “God Save the Queen” while scampering around the Eiffel Tower and trying to evade the _police nationale._

Surely Mycroft could handle this little Miami adventure of his.

 

***

 

He hated Miami already. The sun here was much more oppressive than back home and he deeply regretted not packing sunglasses. Sweat was forming across his brow, under his nose, along his jawline, and especially on his back. This was despite Mycroft insisting that the driver keep the air conditioner on as high as possible. At this rate, his crisp shirt would surely be ruined before he even got a chance to properly rescue and chastise his younger brother.

The police had been no help - it was remarkable, even, that they were able to do their own jobs without tripping over themselves and landing in a tub of pudding. They’d released Sherlock to someone claiming to be his younger brother because apparently checking for identification is a thing of the past in South Beach. After some, well, quite vicious prodding, Mycroft had been able to jostle an address from them, one he hoped was accurate.

When the driver stopped in front of a quaint pastel-colored townhome, Mycroft hesitated for a second before finally deciding to grab his umbrella and take it with him. He felt rather naked without it and he was feeling particularly exposed already: the ridiculous heat had necessitated the removal of his jacket, waistcoat, and tie. Not to mention the undoing of the first couple of buttons on his shirt and the rolling up of his sleeves. He felt more like an accountant on their lunch break than a...low-ranking government employee.

Shortly after he knocked, the front door was answered by a twitchy young man with hair so blonde it was almost white, skin tanned a quite unnatural color, and a smile far too big to be greeting unknown visitors, “Oh fantastic! You must be Mike! Basil said you’d be stopping by soon! Come on in, I just started dinner.”

Mycroft noticed the red splotches on the young man’s apron and the stray noodle clinging to the fabric, _Spaghetti, how uninteresting_ , “It’s Mycroft, actually. And I’m afraid that I can’t stay long.”

“Well come on in, anyway! Basil’s in the shower right now, but I can grab you a little something to drink.”

“Thank you but that will be quite unnecessary,” He walked in and stopped in the middle of he assumed passed for their living area, “I’ll just wait here, if that’s alright.”

“Sure thing sweetie, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” He extended a hand, “I’m Topher, by the way.”

Mycroft gave him his most condescending smile, “I’m overcoming a bit of a cold,” A blatant lie that should have been obvious, ”So pardon me if I don’t shake hands. Such a pleasure to meet you, though.”

When the brownish-orange little....thing finally exited, Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother’s declining taste and began cataloging the room he was in. Tea mugs, shot glasses, and pint glasses containing various liquids in various states of rot were scattered everywhere - no surprise there. Some were definitely experiments, and those made Mycroft smile despite himself, but the rest were undoubtedly the result of his brother’s laziness, an unfortunate trait he'd most likely inherited from their Uncle Virgil, who'd perished when a stack of newspapers three metres tall had collapsed on him.

Amidst the clutter of discarded papers, old take-out containers, silly photos, and empty liquor bottles were what Mycroft had hoped he wouldn’t find: teeny little plastic baggies, all different colours, and all empty. Mycroft sighed, _He’d been doing so well...he’d been doing oh so well.._.

He heard the distinct sound of water turning off and spun around in anticipation of seeing his brother. Within a few moments Sherlock was walking into the living area while towel-drying his hair and wearing nothing but boxer briefs. A small gasp lodged itself in Mycroft’s throat; while the sun seemed to have an unwarranted agenda against him, its effects looked quite good on his younger brother. He had never been a fan of tanned skin, but it gave Sherlock quite a healthy look. It looked rather natural on him, not garish like the elven troll doll in the kitchen. His eyes were a crisp blue and still had red rings around them, most likely caused by the activities that had warranted this visit in the first place.

Sherlock scrunched his nose and offered an ersatz grin, “Brother dearest, how nice of you to come by! I knew you’d show up right around the time the food was ready.”

Mycroft hid his sneer, it would do no good to remind Sherlock that he was still _losing_ weight, “You know why I’m here, Sherlock. We need to have a discussion.”

“Oh I’m just terribly busy at the moment, perhaps we could do it another time.”

“Is that so?” He raised an eyebrow, “We can either speak together now, or I can have you dragged back to London and we can do it there under duress.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “You’re so unbearably hateful,” He stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, possibly debating his options, before stepping over to the kitchen, “I’ll have Topher make us some tea.”

“That’s really not necessa-”

“Oh it’s fine. For an American, he’s actually quite good at it,” He shouted out to the shorter man, who was currently pouring the pasta into a strainer, “Topher, could you be a dear and put the kettle on for us? Make yourself a cuppa if you’d like,” He turned back to Mycroft and gestured to the cluttered living area, “Have a seat anywhere you fancy.”

“You mean there’s actually chairs underneath all this?”

“Carefully place anything in your way onto the floor. You’ll have to do it yourself though, none of your underlings are here to do it for you.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look of displeasure as he tilted an armchair forward, carelessly letting its contents drop to the floor. Sherlock huffed at him and stomped over to the couch before plopping down on what appeared to be the only somewhat clean spot.

“Wouldn’t you like to put some trousers on first?”

“What’s the matter, brother dear?” He began roaming his hands up and down his thighs, “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

 _As a matter of fact_ , “Not in the slightest.”

Sherlock settled back into the couch, “I’m assuming you’re here because of my arrest?”

“Yes, _Basil_ , I’m here to express my disappointment,” He placed his hands together in front of him, “I just don’t understand what caused this relapse, you were taking cases fairly regular with the M-”

“I was _BORED_ , Mycroft. Bored out of my mind! Did you see any of those cases? Petty thievery and botched kidnappings. _Dull_. I could feel my brain stagnating. I needed a break from _being Sherlock_.”

“So you decided to come to Miami?”

“I’d never been. Sounded like fun.”

Topher interrupted their conversation, bringing them both hot mugs of a light brown substance Mycroft hoped was tea. He took a tentative sip, something in him twisting as he watched Topher kiss Sherlock on the forehead before finally going back to the kitchen. Sherlock had been correct, the tea wasn’t that bad. A bit too milky, but better than he expected. He took a few more sips before placing it on a stack of books next to his chair.

He steepled his fingers in front of his face, “What can I do to persuade you to come back home? You know I’d never force you.”

Sherlock laughed, “Nothing. There’s nothing you could do or say that would make me want to go back to a land of greyness and complacency. Perhaps you could try convincing the criminal class to be more interesting and I’ll consider it.”

“What are you even doing down here?”

His tone darkened, “You were left alone in this room for three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, I think it’s fairly obvious what I’m doing down here.”

He huffed out a sigh, “I just hate to see you wasting away like this. Such a shame to be doing nothing with that brilliance of yours”

Sherlock stood up abruptly, “Go eat a cake, Mycroft!” He grabbed a dressing gown from where it had be flung over a bookshelf and threw it on, “I’m content where I am right now and I’m not going back there with you. You might as well leave.”

Mycroft stood up as well and looked his brother in the eye, “Do you want me to leave?”

Sherlock was shaking, hands clenching and unclenching, “Yes. You should probably go before you eat me out of house and home.”

“I assumed you’d be unreasonable,” He stepped forward and, when Sherlock flinched at his closer proximity, brandished a card with his hotel information on it and slipped it into the pocket of Sherlock’s dressing gown, “I’m going to be in town for the next couple of days, I had Anthea clear my schedule. If you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me.”

Sherlock stood defiantly and cocked an eyebrow, “I won’t.”

Mycroft gave him one final smirk before turning and walking out the door, “Of course you won’t.”

 

***

 

Sherlock stared at the front door long after his brother left, long fingers tracing over the card Mycroft had slipped into his pocket. He was vaguely aware of a shrill voice trying to get his attention, but he was firmly stuck in his own head.

_How dare he. How DARE he....come in here looking LIKE THAT... slightly rumpled with his sleeves rolled up and his chest just a touch exposed. How could he POSSIBLY not know how he looks? So...undone. God....if we'd been alone...._

His thoughts volleyed back and forth between annoyed worship and disgust at his brother's expected interference - even if Sherlock had been waiting less-than-patiently for him to interfere. Seeing Mycroft care, watching the concern that washes over his face before he can hide it... Sherlock had been craving it. Craving it more than all the substances in all the little baggies that were strewn about the floor.

_And how he looked at me... He NOTICED. I must have him. I must...finally....have him._

There was one thread that needed to be tied up, though, before he could leave. He could pack his things tonight, say goodbye to his experiments, and present himself to Mycroft tomorrow. But that still left his sometimes-companion in the kitchen, who really was alright but overwhelmingly boring, especially sober. Yes, it was time to sever relations here. Sherlock had played the game and won. Now he was going to .... _.collect._... his prize.

He snapped out of his thoughts, "Topher dearheart," He called out, "We should talk."

 

***

 

The majority of the next day was spent answering emails in his hotel room; it would take the Queen herself to force him out of the air conditioning and into a city that was far too close to the equator. His chosen struggle was attempting to drink tea made from the tiny coffeemaker the hotel provided. He would have parted with the economy of a small country just to have someone bring him an electric kettle. He’d even tried ordering tea with his meal from room service and it hadn’t been any better. In the end, he’d chosen to just suffer and added a bit more sugar than usual to make it palatable.

At precisely 4:30 that afternoon, there was a scattered, persistent knock on the door to his room. Mycroft smirked, exactly as he’d predicted. He rose slowly from the desk chair and took his time walking to the door. The knocking didn’t stop until he finally opened it to reveal the familiar sight of his younger brother dressed in a loose, deep V-neck and impossibly tight jeans. And somehow looking both helpless and petulant.

Sherlock sneered at him as he pushed past into the room, “What’s the matter? All those cupcakes and inactivity are making you slow.”

Mycroft just shut the door and smiled, “I am not always in the mood to rush to your aid, brother mine.”

“You certainly rushed here awful quickly.”

“My sources informed me that you had been arrested and were being held. Of course I would want to remedy that as quickly as possible.”

Sherlock sat on the edge of the plush bed, “Yes well, Topher managed to find another way to make himself useful. Perhaps you should have rushed faster.”

Mycroft twisted the desk chair around so he could sit facing Sherlock, “Oh that’s right, Topher is your newest toy, I take it?”

He waved a hand dismissively, “Hardly. I took it upon myself to release him last night after you left.”

“Heavens. Was his spaghetti that bad?”

“Particularly indicative of his personality as a whole. There wasn’t much of a point in keeping him around once his one consistent area of usefulness was no longer required.”

The meaning behind the vague statement wasn’t lost on Mycroft, “So you've decided to come back with me, then?”

Sherlock chuckled and tilted his head, “Do you know why I do this?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “I’m sorry, you’ll have to be more specific.”

Sherlock gave him his largest smile, “Tap into that mind manor of yours. Do you remember when we were young? Do you remember who I liked to spend the most time with at the estate?”

 

“Well...Mummy and Dad were always busy working and you were never a fan of any of the help so...I suppose, well, you and I spent quite a bit of time together. Until I went off to boarding school that is.”

“Ah yes. I recall that quite well. My entire life until that point had been centered around you, dearest brother of mine. And suddenly you were gone and I was only able to snatch snippets of your attention whenever you were home. You were suddenly too busy for me, too preoccupied with classwork and class...mates. And I just...wanted it to be like it used to be, when I felt like I was your only focus. Like you were mine.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, “Is that why you started acting out so incessantly?"

Sherlock chuckled again, “It started out innocently, as an experiment. I hypothesized a few different ways to regain your affection. My first attempt was, I admit, a bit shortsighted; I tried complimenting you fervently, but you didn’t even react. After that, I tried acting ambivalent towards you, hoping that you’d try and figure out was wrong. But then, THEN, I tried my hand at misbehaving to see where that got me.”

He nodded absently, “I remember. It seemed so out of character for you. Our parents just assumed you were becoming a teenager, but I could tell it wasn’t just that.”

“And I received the reaction I wanted: you took me into my room, held my hands, and talked to me for hours. That was all the data I needed.”

“So all this,” Mycroft found himself at a loss for the proper words, “These actions, indiscretions, these...relapses... they’ve always been because I wasn’t paying enough attention to you?”

“Of course!” Sherlock nearly shouted, “I’m surprised you didn’t deduce it sooner. You think everything’s fine with me so you quit checking up on me and visiting me and...texting me. Unless you have some preposterous case that you want me to take care of for you. Otherwise you’re perfectly...content to just let me be. It’s miserable, Mycroft. It makes me miserable.”

"I.... I'm sorry. I had no idea, why didn't you inform me before?"

"You know me," Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I prefer opacity when it comes to my emotions. And I guess I....never wanted you to feel bad. You have your own life, it shouldn't be your concern that your younger brother is obsessed with you."

Mycroft's eyes went wide, "Obsessed?"

Sherlock bit his bottom lip with a grin, "Yes, I think that's a rather good term for it," He moved quickly onto Mycroft's lap, straddling him, before Mycroft could react, "It didn't start out this way you know," His hands gripped his brother's upper arms and he looked everywhere but Mycroft's eyes, studying his hair, his ears, and his shoulders.

“First, I just needed you intellectually, you provided far better data and stimulus than anyone else that I could acquire. Then...I realized, after you left, that I needed you emotionally, too. No one listened to me or understood me like you did," He started tracing his fingers through Mycroft's short hair, "And then, once I turned sixteen, I realized I needed you, no, wanted you, in a very different way..."

"Sherlock this is highly inappropriat-" Mycroft brought his hands up to push Sherlock off, but Sherlock grabbed his wrists.

"Do you know why you do this?"

"Do what, exactly?"

"Come to my rescue. My sweet, ginger knight. Always there when I need him."

"Because you're my brother!" He spouted out a little too quickly.

Sherlock smiled, "That's what I always thought, too. It actually hurt, knowing that I wanted you so badly and you only operated out of fraternal loyalty...but then," His thumbs started making gentle circles on Mycroft's wrists, "Last night you looked at me, _really_ looked at me. And you liked what you saw."

"Sherlock, now reall-"

"Tell me to stop."

"What?"

"I'm going to kiss you. Because I want to and I've wanted to for a long time. And it's obvious that you want to as well."

"Obvious?"

Sherlock ground against him for emphasis, "Your pupils are dilated, your pulse is elevated, your cock is thickening. Classic signs of arousal. But," He licked his lips, "If you say no, if you tell me to stop, I will. I promise. I'll walk away and I'll still go back to London with you and I'll never broach the subject again."

Mycroft let out a small gasp but didn't respond. Sherlock's gaze flickered between his eyes and lips and started slowing moving forward, closing the distance between them. Every thought going through Mycroft's head was screaming at him to do something, to make this stop. Everything about this was wrong: Sherlock's breath ghosting over him as their faces got ever closer, his long thumbs still gently rubbing his wrists, and his cock, his very present cock, pressing against his groin and belly.

Against all his better judgement, Mycroft tilted his head up and leaned forward, capturing Sherlock's mouth in his own. Sherlock smiled and moaned happily in response, moving his hands up until he could clasp their fingers together. He planted his feet firmly on the plush hotel carpet and began rutting against his older brother. Mycroft spread his legs as much as he could in the chair, allowing their groins to better make contact. A whiny groan escaped his lips when Sherlock's tongue brushed against his own.

"Mmm...brother dear you taste just sweet as I always imagined. Please let me take you to bed," He whispered against Mycroft's lips between kisses, "Let me show you how good I am, how good I can make you feel... Let me see how you look when you're completely undone..."

Mycroft groaned, "Sherlock we can't, it's indecent."

Sherlock pulled back and smiled, "Why are you so worried? We're two consenting adults. I want you and you want me. Why should anyone else matter?"

Mycroft faltered; he didn't have a proper response for that, especially not when his body was more focused on all the sensations happening below his belt rather than rebutting Sherlock's argument. Instead, he smiled and kissed Sherlock again, this time running his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, wanting to feel all the skin he'd admired the night before. Sherlock obliged him quickly, yanking his own shirt off and tossing it behind him.

Carefully, Sherlock stood up and, without breaking their kiss, moved backwards towards the bed. He laid down first, then dragged Mycroft on top, despite his brother's protests as he hovered over him.

"Are you sure you want this?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt.

"Stop overanalyzing, Mycroft." He leaned up to press firm kisses against Mycroft's neck while he continued trying to get his shirt off, "I want so much of you. I want to wrap my tongue around your cock, I want to work my fingers inside you until you're whimpering, then I want to fuck you into the mattress," He brushed the shirt off Mycroft's shoulders and onto the bed, "I want to fuck you so rough...so thoroughly...that you scream my name loud enough for the Queen herself to hear."

Mycroft exhaled slowly, "Really?"

"God, yes. Now get your pants off."

Mycroft hopped off the bed and methodically unfastened his trousers and slid them down, gingerly stepping out of them. He glanced up and noticed Sherlock shucking his jeans off carelessly and flinging them away from him. Soon, his pants were given the same treatment and he gave Mycroft a wicked grin. He fumbled across the bed until he was sitting right in front of his brother, his face level with Mycroft's abdomen. Sherlock gripped onto his hipbones and tugged him forward until he could nuzzle against the soft hair the trailed down his belly.

Sherlock bit all around the pudgy areas of his stomach, pausing to suck hard on a few fleshy spots by his bellybutton. His hands moved slowly downward, dragging Mycroft's pants with them until his swollen cock finally bobbed free. Sherlock suckled on the very tip of it as he pushed the pants down the rest of the way, helpfully lifting Mycroft's legs one by one as he got rid of them.

Now fully exposed, Mycroft still expected Sherlock to change his mind, to back away any second. While Sherlock's body was lean and tan, engrossing in its beauty, Mycroft knew his own suffered from the effects of inactivity. Of course, he was more active now, but he was still very aware that his own form didn't match up to the one sitting in front of him, a fact he was sure Sherlock would notice.

Instead, he felt open, wet kisses against his belly and hips, moving further down until Sherlock had shifted onto the floor to reach the sensitive skin where his groin and thigh met. He gasped loudly when Sherlock ran his tongue against the skin and then over to where his cock was waiting and growing ever thicker. For just a second, Sherlock looked up at him, eyes darker than Mycroft had ever seen, then winked at him before taking him almost all the way into his mouth.

Mycroft could only brace himself on Sherlock's shoulders and watch as his younger brother paused, relaxed his throat muscles, and sucked him down the rest of the way. He felt Sherlock's nose tickling against his ruddy pubic hair. Sherlock's hands slid around his hips until they were firmly grasping his arse. He slowly pulled back, applying steady pressure with his tongue, until he was able to roll his tongue lazily around the foreskin and over the glans, then began a leisurely rhythm. He tugged Mycroft forward as his mouth slid down, forcing him to keep pace and, in effect, fuck his mouth.

It took Mycroft a few minutes to realize what Sherlock wanted, but he eventually caught on and began thrusting his hips of his own accord. Sherlock hummed appreciatively and Mycroft thought he would lose it right there. He could feel his legs shaking and couldn't resist gripping a hand in his younger brother's messy hair to encourage him to expedite his process.

To his annoyance, Sherlock brushed his hand away and pulled completely off his cock with a grin, "No brother dear, not like this."

He rose up until they were eye level and pressed their lips together again. Mycroft's knees nearly buckled from tasting himself on his brother's tongue as it glided against his own. Gently, Sherlock turned them until Mycroft's back was to the bed and slowly pushed him onto it, clamboring forward until he leaned over him. His eyes scanned over Mycroft's face and neck. It was a look he was familiar with; Sherlock was taking in data, checking to see if anything had changed, memorizing any new input. It was enthralling, in a way, to be on the receiving end of such scrutiny rather than the other way around. Especially when he knew Sherlock learned this from him.

After what seemed like an impossibly long time, Sherlock met his gaze and smiled. He lowered until their mouths met, this time with a slow pressure, dragging his lips luxuriously over Mycroft's own. With his knee, he spread Mycroft's knees further apart and settled himself between.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, Sherlock stuck his pointer and middle finger in his mouth to get them wet, then shifted to get a better angle and traced them lightly down Mycroft's thighs. Mycroft shivered as he felt Sherlock draw gentle circles around his opening.

Sherlock tilted to press kisses against Mycroft's neck, "Shhh....brother mine, relax for me."

It was a strange feeling, something foreign and wonderful, as Sherlock first breached him, stopping at the second knuckle and rocking gently until he could easily slide the entire finger in and out. His free hand moved slowly along Mycroft's chest and side, offering gentle reassurance. Mycroft could feel himself opening up more and drew up and bent his legs to give his brother a better angle.

Sherlock's free hand slid downwards until he had a firm grip on Mycroft's raised knee and lowered his head to lick and suck on an already-raised nipple. Mycroft let out a slight cry when he felt a second finger press into him; it was a burn he'd known to expect, but it still took a moment for him to adjust. The fingers were sliding carefully though, unhurried, allowing him all the time he needed.

Mycroft surprised himself by rolling his hips forward, trying to get more of the digits inside him that felt so perfect but just not enough. He was never this unrestrained, but it wasn't this often that his chosen partner made him feel this comfortable.  Sherlock had moved on to his other nipple by now, wetting it with his tongue and blowing on it, causing the already sensitive skin to pebble.

"Are you ready for me?" Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse with want.

Mycroft looked down his chest at his brother's eager face and nodded quickly, eliciting another large smile from Sherlock. Within a second, the fingers were removed and Sherlock had scattered to dig into the back pockets of his discarded jeans. He hated the feeling of absence, but shivered when he saw the foil packet held aloft between Sherlock's fingers. The wrapper was removed quickly and tossed aside, landing somewhere among Sherlock's pile of clothes.

Sherlock locked eyes with his brother and parted his lips slightly as he rolled the condom onto his prick and pumped his fist over it a few times. He lowered himself between Mycroft's legs once again and carefully positioned himself against the puckered opening.

He dragged his fingers down the side of Mycroft's face, "It's not too late...you can always....just...you can still say 'No', okay?"

Mycroft smiled, grasped his fingers, and pulled them to his lips so he could softly kiss them, "Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock hastily snatched an unused pillow and propped it under his brother's hips, then nestled his face against Mycroft's chest and slowly pushed inward. The first part was always the hardest, Mycroft remembered, the initial stretch of skin as the head popped in. After that, it was just a steady burn of smooth shaft easing in. He bit his lip to keep any noise from escaping, pained or otherwise. Although once Sherlock was fully seated inside him, he followed his brother's example and panted openly before turning his head to catch Sherlock's open mouth in a messy kiss. He ran his hands up his brother's smooth back and felt the shudders running down his spine.

Mycroft leaned away to whisper in his ear, "Don't be nervous, brother mine."

A strained gasp squeaked out from Sherlock as he got his bearings and began moving. Mycroft gripped his shoulders as Sherlock steadied himself and started into a steady motion, not too violent but not shy either. Warm breath fell against his neck as Sherlock leaned into him, gleefully slapping their flesh together.

The sensations were too perfect; Mycroft tried to get his brain to forget that his brother was the one thrusting into him but it refused to obey. Perhaps Sherlock hadn't been the only one that had wanted this. He couldn't deny how needy his body rocked when Sherlock plunged into him, shifting upwards to try and get more of him, somehow. Part of him wanted to compartmentalise the emotions he was feeling, but not now. Not when Sherlock was sucking on his shoulder muscles and escalating his pace.

A slender hand reached between them before he could resist and grasped his cock firmly. Sherlock pumped his hand up and down Mycroft's cock in rhythm with his increasingly fast thrusts. The embarrassing noises he was making were more erratic now, less controlled. He didn't want to want this so badly, but Sherlock was hitting him perfectly with every movement, touching his insides as if he already knew every spot that needed an intimate graze.

The precipice was approaching, he knew it. The electricity was flowing freely through him, starting at his toes and making its way up through his torso. He was so very close, but there was one part of his evolved brain that refused to take the last step, refused to ravenously call out the name of the person that was pleasuring him so fully. Such would be a complete rejection of social norms, an acceptance of such sexual depravity, an unholy-

"Dear Christ....Shhhheeeerrrrlock."

His abdominals had never clenched so furiously over and over, feeding through his intense orgasm until he felt completely boneless. Sherlock followed shortly afterwards, panting Mycroft's name over and over until he was collapsed over his older brother. Moving his fingers in a calming gesture was second-nature at this point, so much so that Mycroft didn't even realise he was doing it until Sherlock shifted to pull out and lie beside him.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock wrapped his long arms around him, "I....I know you probably want me to but...."

Mycroft tilted his head up, "What is it?"

Sherlock looked up at him with wide, greedy eyes, "Please don't ask me to leave. Not yet, please."

He tugged his brother impossibly tighter, "I wouldn't dream of it, brother mine." A thought nagged at him, though, "There is something that I'm curious about, though"

Sherlock grunted against his chest. He took this as affirmation to continue.

"I've seen the type that you...consort with. They're all," _thin, fit, young_ , "Not like me."

"Oh brother dear," Sherlock looked up at him again, "Why would I settle for an imitation of what I truly wanted?"

Mycroft found himself once again unable to fathom a proper answer. Instead he stared at the ceiling, wondering how - no matter how much he thought he knew his brother - this impossible creature sprawled over him always managed to prove more intricate than he imagined.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bonini's Paradox deals with trying to explain or create a model of a complex idea, i.e, the more accurate and detailed the explanation or model, the more difficult it is for a layman to understand (it's often used as reasoning for why we don't have a more complex map of the brain). Or rather, the more information you try to express, the more difficult it can be for another person to understand. 
> 
> Operation Booth is so named for Edwin Booth - widely considered to be one of the greatest American actors and the greatest Hamlet of the 19th century - and his brother whose exploits unfortunately overshadow his (and whose infamy nearly caused Edwin to leave the spotlight for good), John Wilkes Booth.


End file.
